


Take Me Home Tonight

by LoveInTheTimeOfBearimies



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Boys Kissing, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29699058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveInTheTimeOfBearimies/pseuds/LoveInTheTimeOfBearimies
Summary: Shawn keeps kissing Lassiter, who's surprisingly okay with it.Five times Lassie drives Shawn home, and one time Shawn drives him.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1




The first time Spencer kissed me, I chalked it up as one of his lame-brain idiosyncrasies and did my best to forget about it. Maybe if I had handled it differently, drew the line and told him never to cross it like that again, it might have ended there. Maybe it would have been like waving a red cape at a bull and we would have ended up in the same place, only faster. Probably that one. 

That first night, the first step in our little pasodoble, started with a ride home from the bar. No, it _ended_ with a ride home from the bar. It started with a case, of course. A dead socialite, a missing diamond ring, and a gaggle of geese later (no, _really_ ), and we all needed a drink. 

I only had one, then stuck to club soda. I hadn’t let myself drink around Spencer for some time, but I also hadn’t let myself think about why that was. I noticed he wasn’t drinking that heavily himself. He was on his second beer, but had been nursing it a while. 

“...and that’s when the spirits showed me how the case could be solved! But first I needed my crackerjack detective, and my dad’s trusty metal-detector!”

I heard his voice over a break in the music and turned to see him telling the thrilling story of our jaunt around a pond trying to corner and scan waterfowl. That man would use anything to get laid. There were two girls with him. Women. Young ones, but at least they had the decency to look legal. 

Spencer looked over and caught me looking back at him. 

“There he is, ladies,” he said, pointing them in my direction. “Head Detective Lassiter here not only captured a very bad man today, but he also saved a three million dollar diamond ring.”

I knew he was mocking me, but his lady friends seemed genuinely impressed. Moreso about the ring than the bad-guy, really. We ended up having a nice conversation about the four C’s, and it took me too long to see that Spencer had slipped away. 

I found him trying to convince Guster to drive him home, which I could already see was a lost cause. Guster had been putting them away steadily and was far less capable of driving than Spencer was himself. 

“What the hell was that?” I asked him, jerking my thumb over my shoulder at our new friends, Janine and Marisol, where I left them at the bar. 

“Dude, you’re blowing it! I was wing-manning for you. I talked you up for like half an hour. You could easily get one or both of them to go home with you.”

“I don’t need you to pimp me out, Spencer.”

Gus interjected, “Do I have to be here for this conversation?” 

“Yes,” Shawn said at the same time I said, “No.” We glared at each other. 

“Good.” He finished his drink. “I’m going to get another one of these. Lassie, why don’t you take Shawn home. Then you can badger him all you want.”

“Hey!” Spencer cried, but Guster was already across the bar and gesturing at the bartender while he sidled up next to Marisol. “Ugh. Whatever. If Gus is going to be the broken Pringle at the bottom of the can, let’s get out of here.”

Considering I hadn’t agreed to drive him home, he was lucky I followed him. 

Oh, who am I kidding? 

Juliet was at a table with a few of the younger officers. She’s always impressed me with the way she tries to make everyone feel included. 

“We’re heading out,” he told her. 

She turned to look at me with raised eyebrows.

“ _Carlton’s_ driving you?” 

“It’s on my way.” _(It wasn’t.)_

She smirked, and if I believed in any of that psychic mumbo-jumbo, I would think it’s catching. I’m sure she knew something then. That smirk was knowing. 

I drove him to that crazy apartment of his, and we did not discuss what had happened in the bar. Spencer has a way of distracting me. He fiddled with the radio, and I smacked his hands. Eventually, he landed on an oldies station and I left it there. Sometimes I found our overlapping interests to be in weird places. Then again, he probably liked the song because it had been on the Ghostbusters II soundtrack. _(Not that I would ever tell him I knew such a thing.)_

We pulled up, and I let the car idle. I wanted no misapprehensions about me sticking around for a drink or a chat or anything else. My mind was unclear on what “anything else” might entail. 

He unbuckled his seatbelt. When he moved, I expected him to turn for the door. Instead, he turned towards me. 

“Thank you, Lassie,” he murmured, and it sounded like so much more than for a five minute car ride. “Good night.” 

Then he leaned over and put a big smacker of a kiss on my cheek with an exaggerated, “Muah!” before hopping out of the car and running to his door so fast, I was still dumbstruck as it slammed behind him. 

“Weird fucking day,” I said to no one, and wiped my face as though he’d left cooties on it. What if somebody had seen, and thought I liked it?

I should have stopped it then. But I let it go, the way I let all of it go. The touches and the flirting and the teasing. None of it was serious because Spencer could not be serious. His days consisted of making a fool of me in as many ways as he could, and the best thing to do was ignore it. Let it roll right off me like water off a duck’s back. Or goose’s, as it turns out. As I learned that day, laughing with Spencer as he wrestled with an angry bird too near the water’s edge and the metal detector hovering over its belly beeped frantically. 

I drove home, got into a bottle of whisky that I rationalized as being much cheaper than drinking at the bar, and passed out on my couch. I did not think of the brush of his lips on my face or the way his fingers rested on my arm when he leaned in. 




The second time was almost a month later. 

Spencer wasn’t on my mind at all. It had been a light week for murder and he hadn’t been nosing around being a nuisance. That Friday, hours after O’Hara had left for the weekend, I stayed at the station looking for anything to do that would keep me from being home, alone. Eventually I got too hungry to put it off any longer, and I called in a take-out order. At least I could go eat my feelings, and have enough food left over to stay in until it was time to head back to the station on Monday morning. 

I should have known parking downtown would be shit. Everyone was there, kicking off their weekends. Restaurants were full of couples and families, the pier and beach shops teeming with life. It usually made me feel good to see the people of my city safe and happy. It’s my job to keep them that way. But on a night when I was already feeling lonely and sorry for myself, the last thing I wanted to put up with was crowds. I finally found a spot two blocks from the restaurant. 

Of course I had to walk past the Psych office to get to the restaurant. There was a light on inside but I didn’t look to see if anyone was there. If I had, either way it would have felt too much like admitting that I cared. I was so determined to ignore the office that I didn’t realize I was being followed until I reached the doors of the Hunan Palace. 

Someone came up quickly behind me and grabbed the handle the same second my own reached it. I turned my iciest glare on the impatient asshole who looked up at me sheepishly and said, “ _Oh em gee_ , Lassie, you eat here too? What a coincidence.”

“Cut the crap, Spencer. What do you want?”

“Nothing! I just saw you entering this fine dining establishment, and wanted to say hi. You don’t call, you don’t write. What’s a psychic to think?”

“If I find one, I’ll let you know.”

He hovered next to me and the hostess assumed we were together. She handed Spencer the bags of food while I was signing the receipt. “Please enjoy, and come back soon,” she told him. 

“We will, thank you!” he told her, as if he had any business being part of the transaction. 

I snatched one of the bags, but he held the other away, keeping my egg rolls and soup hostage so I would have to walk back down the street with him. When we reached his door, he whistled and said, “There sure is a lot of food here, Lass.”

“I like having leftovers,” I said, and cringed at how defensive I sounded. 

“Yeah, you like that the nice restaurant lady though you were buying dinner for your whole family.” There was nothing I could say to that. He was right. I was waiting for him to make fun of me for it, but he continued, “You know, if you came inside and shared this with me, then you wouldn’t have to eat alone.”

“You just want free food.”

“Duh, always, but that’s not the point.” He waited for me to say something, but I hesitated. He shuffled his feet. I think, in the end, that was what made me agree. For a second there he seemed nervous. “I was going to watch Serpico,” he offered. 

I went inside. 

It was… nice. We watched the movie and he ate more than his share of my dinner and we managed not to fight. Much. He was right, that it was better not to be alone. He has an annoying habit of being right about a lot of things. 

I packed up the cartons and put them away in the office refrigerator. Fuck it, he could keep them. I could always order more. We had reached the most awkward part of the night. I didn’t know how to thank him for his company without sounding like I was inviting it to happen again. If we were friends, that would have been normal, but I had never wanted to be his friend. I didn’t know how to extricate myself from the situation without making it weirder. 

He stood, stretching. “All right,” he whined, acting put out, but relieving me of my indecision, “I’ll guess I can take you home.”

“It’s _my_ car, Spencer.”

“Okay, fine. I guess you can take me home, then.”

I walked right into that. 

It wasn’t until I parked the car outside his place that I remembered what happened the last time we were there. He does so many ridiculous things, it was easy to let that memory slip beneath the surface. Only, as we sat in front of his apartment, I started to feel like it was a memory I should have examined more closely. There was a pale cast to Spencer’s face that I attributed to the street light, but now I think it might have been fear. 

“I’m sorry I ambushed you into hanging out with me.”

“Are you?” I asked, surprised. I was always wary of his apologies.

“Are you?” he asked in return. 

I thought about it, and was a little horrified to discover that I wasn’t. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and sighed. “No.” It was hard to admit, but I wasn’t going to lie, even if it only encouraged him to think we were buddies or something. 

He beamed. I was about to tell him to wipe that face off his head when he grabbed me by the tie and yanked. The top half of my body was wrenched over the console and Spencer planted his lips on the side of my face _again_.

“What the fuck, Spencer?” I screamed at him. “Why do you keep _doing_ that?”

He smoothed my tie down my chest. “I always kiss my dates goodnight,” he said, and got out of the car. 

“This was not a date!” I called, but if he heard me, he didn’t turn around. 

  
  





When my phone rang past midnight a week later, I should have known better than to answer it without looking. I wasn’t expecting to be called into work, but it’s happened. You can’t schedule murder, much to my everlasting chagrin.

So when I dragged the phone to my ear and answered, “Lassiter,” I wasn’t expecting to hear Spencer on the other end, blathering on about how he was up at a mansion in the foothills that he most assuredly was not snooping around for a private case, and he was stranded there, and could I come pick him up?

“How?” I asked, and then thought better. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Why aren’t you calling Guster? Or your father?” 

“You _just_ said you don’t want to know, what’s with the 20 Questions? Are you coming or not?”

“Spencer, it’ll take me half an hour to get up there,” I grumbled, hoping he would take it as a “no.”

“You better get moving then!”

My bed was so warm and soft. I didn’t have to get up. I didn’t have to go all the way to Hell and back because this idiot got in over his head again. But he had called me, and I couldn’t leave him to get caught and potentially arrested by another cop. That’s what got me moving. No one can arrest that little faker but _me_. 

“Whatever. Send me the address,” I said, and snapped my phone shut. God, I missed hanging up on people. 

I pulled up at the bottom of a long, gated driveway and killed the lights. A few seconds later, Spencer ran out from the bushes lining the drive and practically dove into the car. After getting a safe distance down the road, I told him, ”I can’t believe I’m saying this, but please don’t say anything incriminating.”

“They can’t press charges if they don’t know I was there.”

Glaring at him would have taken my eyes off the road, but I did my best.

“I’m joking, chill.”

He rolled his window down and a cool breeze swirled through the car. I opened mine too. 

“I love that,” he said, and sighed. “Night air is just better.” He tilted his head back to look up out the window at the sky. There were more stars than usual, away from the light pollution of the town. He looked so content. I thought the word _lovely_ and was ashamed of it. I wanted to see what he was seeing; share it with him. But I kept my eyes on the road, sometimes stealing glances his way. He could enjoy the view for the both of us. 

I turned on the radio to kill the silence and it was playing Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” I was already going to leave the song on, but Shawn reached out and grabbed my wrist and said, “Don’t change it, okay?”

There’s something about a late night drive; the stars and the music, and the sweet summer smells on the air. There was something romantic about it, too. It felt like I was a teenager again, taking a girl out to the drive in movie theater and hoping she’d let me kiss her…

Is that what this was about? Had Spencer set this up just so he could kiss me? I almost laughed, it sounded so stupid. Did I really think he got himself stranded just so he’d have to call me? No. But did I think he used the situation to his benefit? Absolutely, he did. And here I was, driving him home, again. These conditions were at least as date-like as the last two times, which in my mind was not at all, but he appeared to be measuring with a different stick. 

I was on full alert by the time we reached his place. I wasn’t going to fall for his tricks, or let him manipulate me. I planned to kick him out of the car quickly and then be on my way. I readied my most stringent cop-voice to hurry him along, but when I turned he was _looking_ at me with sultry, fluttery, bedroom eyes and whatever I was about to say died in my throat. My breath hitched and the corner of his mouth turned up in the most infuriating half-smile. I hated how good he looked. 

“Spencer,” I warned.

“What?” he asked, all innocence. 

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not interested.”

He took the seat belt off slowly. It made a slithery sound that set me on edge. I refused to look at him, keeping my eyes trained on the stop sign on the corner instead. 

“I’m not playing a game.” 

“It’s time for you to go.”

He groaned, and I snuck a peek at him from the corner of my eye. He was biting his lip. 

“You picked me up in the middle of nowhere. At zero dark thirty. With no questions asked, almost. You’re my hero. What’s wrong with expressing my gratitude?”

I could feel him coming closer.

“Consider it expressed.”

He leaned forward. I could smell some woodsy aftershave coming off him. It made my mouth water. I did my best to keep my breathing even, and not blink or swallow or give him any indication that he was having an effect on me. I felt my control slipping when he rested his hand for balance on my thigh so he could bring his face close to mine. Kissing distance. 

“Lassie,” he crooned in a _please don’t make me beg_ voice. It was incredibly hot. 

The puff of air against my neck was more than I could take. If I didn’t stop him right then, I wasn’t sure I would be able to. 

Turning to face him was a bad idea. I started saying, “Don’t even think ab… mmph” but I got cut off as his mouth pressed against mine. Not completely, it was a weird angle, but enough. After a few seconds I gave in and closed my eyes. I may have made a noise. He sucked on my bottom lip lightly as he pulled back and it took everything I had not to follow his mouth for more. 

“Good night, Lassie,” he whispered against my skin and it sent a shiver down my back. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to grab Spencer, haul him into my lap, and devour him. One not-even-all-the-way-on-my-mouth kiss and he lit a fire in my blood. 

“Good night,” I whispered back

He was gone in a flash.


	2. Chapter 2

4\. 

We never talked about it. Every time it happened, I tried to put it out of my mind. I wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway. And Spencer acted the same as always. I caught him looking at me a bit more, and he touched me a little less while he was flailing about, but those things might just have been my imagination, because I was paying more attention to him. And maybe I wanted him to touch me more. No one could have guessed that something was happening between us, and what drove me crazy was that I couldn’t even tell if it was real myself.

In a way, I was content to wait. To see if another encounter was inevitable or if we would fall out of the pattern and let the connection fade. I shouldn’t have worried. 

The bartender at a local “Gentlemen's Club” (yeah, that means strip joint, but classy) had been found dead in his car in the garage across the street. Woody said it was natural causes; that the man had died of a heart attack. My gut said something different. I went to the club that night alone. I was just going to take a look around, try to set my mind at ease that there was nothing more sinister going on than the ill-timed death of a middle-aged dandy with high cholesterol. 

Spencer was sitting at a table a row back from the stage. I had to move quickly before he saw me. I snuck to a table in a shadowy corner of the room. All thoughts of the possible case were forgotten. I had to see what he was up to. 

A waitress in an impossibly short cocktail dress came by his table. They talked for a minute and he made her laugh. She touched his arm before she walked away. He had such a way of making people feel comfortable. It never ceased to amaze me. After a while, she came back to drop off a drink and a woman in a spangled bikini. 

The new girl sat in his lap and I watched as he negotiated a lap dance from her. I was sickened. But at the same time it was stupid to be surprised. I should have known better than to think there could be something between us when he was the kind of man who paid for company in places like this. I couldn’t take my eyes off them as she danced around him and in his lap, rubbing her hands over his chest and through his hair. 

When it was over and she had gotten her money, he whispered something in her ear and she thanked him. She walked towards my end of the room where the employee backstage entrance was. I intercepted her by the door, and showed her my badge before asking about the man she had just danced for. 

“Dr. Hieronymus Johnson?” 

“Sure. What did he say to you?”

“It’s kind of weird. He asked for me special, even though I’ve never seen him before. He asked me about George, that’s our bartender who died. We were friends. He told me he’s a medium and that George wants me to take my savings and move back to Idaho.” 

Of course he did. 

“Did you say anything else?” I asked, exasperated. Spencer couldn’t even come in here and hit on a dancer like regular scum. He had to be working a case, just like me. Unbelievable. 

“I told him about the old storage room where George took his breaks.”

Fuck. I turned to look at Spencer’s table, and he was gone. I thanked the dancer and ran off before realizing I never got her name. Some detective I was. I bet Spencer got it. 

I knew I opened the right door when I heard someone scrambling to hide. 

“I know you’re here, Spencer,” I called into the small dusty room filled with liquor cartons. He popped up like a Jack in the Box. 

“Lassie?” he responded, shocked. I have to admit it felt good to catch him off balance for once. He bounced back quickly. “You got my psychic message to meet me here!”

“None of that!” I scolded. “You can’t be in here, it’s trespassing.” 

“But Lassie, the case!”

“There is no case. It was just a heart attack.” I still didn’t believe that completely, but my first instinct is always to say the opposite of whatever Spencer says. I’m working on it, okay?

“Then why are you here?” he asked. “If you came for a lap dance, allow me to recommend my friend Chanterelle. She’s emotionally supportive and has unbelievable core strength.”

Ignoring that completely, I said, “Let’s get out of here before someone catches us. I don’t feel like explaining this to the management.” I left, and he followed with surprisingly little argument. 

By the time we got to the car I felt foolish for rushing him out. I still didn’t have any answers. _“So?”_ I prompted. He looked confused. “Did you find anything?”

He started going into his schtick, with the eyebrows and the hands. I decided to stop him before he reached the pop-culture babble-fest portion, and smacked his hand away from his head. “Knock it off. If you know something, just tell me.”

His eyes shifted around the car before settling on me. Knowing what Shawn Spencer is thinking has never been one of my strong suits. Obviously. But in that moment, I did know. Inside my car had become a liminal space for us. Our relationship was different within its confines, the rules were different, and I wouldn’t let him get away with lying like he did on the outside. 

“He was running drugs out of the club. I don’t know if it has anything to do with his death, but he definitely had some less than legal extracurriculars.” 

“You’re sure?”

He nodded. 

“That’s good enough for me. I’ll talk to the chief tomorrow. We can come back and do a proper search.”

He perked up. “Can you tell her and Jules about the amazing vision I had?”

“Don’t push your luck,” I told him, starting the engine. 

One more time at his door. It was starting to feel so familiar. It was dark and quiet and strangely comfortable.

“Did you really tell that girl to move back to Idaho?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“She misses her mom. And her best friend there just had a baby. She doesn’t want to feel like a failure for leaving here. She needed someone to tell her it’s okay to go.”

“How did you manage to get her whole life story and still have time to find out about the bartender? She was only there for a three minute song.” 

He smiled. “You were watching?”

I could feel the blush on my cheeks and hoped he couldn’t see it in the dark. “Chanterelle is a mushroom,” I said, changing the subject. 

“You thought I was hanging out getting lap dances for fun, and you were jealous.”

“Shut up.”

“Nuh-uh. Nope. If I have to tell the truth, so do you.”

I sighed. Have I mentioned I hate it when he’s right? “Fine. I didn’t like seeing her all over you like that. When I questioned her and realized you were there to investigate, albeit in your own unique way… I was relieved.” 

I’d seen him look proud of himself before. At least once a week, on average. Usually it meant he’d beaten me at something. It didn’t feel like that this time. The air in the car suddenly felt thick and charged. I felt the blush spread down my neck and chest and cursed being so painfully Irish. I hated his stupid smug face. He looked from my eyes to my mouth and back again, but didn’t make a move.   
  
This thing where we understood each other was the absolute worst. My brain still rebelled at the idea of wanting him, but my traitorous heart couldn’t get with the program. 

“Oh, go on then,” I told him, resigned to the kiss I knew was coming and my complete lack of desire to stop it. 

We moved forward at the same time. This time the angle was just right and I’m pretty sure we both moaned into the contact. As kisses go, it was still fairly chaste; no tongue, lips barely parted, but there was heat. When I pulled away and looked into those hazel eyes, muddied with shadow, but still achingly beautiful, I saw his emotions stripped bare. He would give me anything. If I asked to come inside and spend the night, he would welcome it. 

I think he knew I wasn’t ready. He slid a hand up my jaw and rubbed a thumb over my cheek. I had to restrain the urge to nuzzle into it like a dog. 

“I’ll see you at the station tomorrow?” It wasn’t a question. 

  
5\. 

The fifth time it happened, it was all my doing, and I have no excuse.

The case was a bad one. The bodies were stacking up, and not even Spencer had a clue what was happening. When the third kid went missing, he slammed his fist on the desk and swore that we would get her back alive. 

It didn’t turn out that way. 

The FBI got involved, and they didn’t want to cooperate with the SBPD at all, much less its resident kooky psychic. Their loss, but more importantly, the victim’s. 

Our hands were tied. Shawn has never been bothered with pesky things like jurisdiction, something I grudgingly admire. But not even he has the freedom to say fuck authority, fuck your red tape, and your bureaucratic chains of command to the FBI. We were completely shut out. The Chief said it was for the best, since the locals were about ready to grab their pitchforks and come for our heads. Shawn raged. His dedication to Justice rivals only my own. He is my chaotic opposite in manner and method, but we are often united in purpose, and that’s never more clear than when we fail. 

Once the case closed, and the perp’s body was cooling next to that innocent girl’s in the morgue, the feds wrapped things up like they were calling it a win. They got the bad guy, after all. They were just leaving us with the mess. 

So when Spencer pulled the sleeve of my jacket and said, “Come on, Lassie, let’s go,” with a low, defeated voice, I followed him. Why bother arguing about it? There was nothing to be done but the paperwork, and God knows I didn’t need to get a head start on that. 

I don’t know how it became normal to drive him home. I don’t know when it became my job, but I found that I didn’t really mind. Even after what happened last time. Maybe even because of what happened last time. I thought about that kiss for days. 

I was thinking about it right then, and was disgusted with myself for it. Three dead kids and I wanted to know if there was another kiss in my future. Shit. 

I started the car. Spencer certainly wasn’t thinking about kissing. He stared out the window. No jabber, no slap fights over the radio, no mischievous smiling eyes. I had seen him broken once or twice before, but the air in the car felt heavy with it. 

I wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how. I’m clumsy with intricate feelings and I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut if there’s a chance I might make someone feel worse. And I always seem to make someone (Victoria) feel worse. 

He finally looked at me when I turned the car off. 

“We could have saved her. You and me. We could have.” He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were glassy. 

Without thinking, I grabbed his hand. I squeezed his fingers and felt a jolt as they twitched against my palm. “We could have,” I repeated, and I believed it. I believed him, and it was suddenly very important to me that he know that. I held his gaze for a long second. 

“Thanks.” 

Then he sighed, opened the door, and walked away. 

I don’t remember deciding to follow him. There was no way I could let him leave after that. I slipped into the apartment behind him, glad he hadn’t locked the door, as much as I was annoyed at his neglect of safety measures. He stood at the laundromat’s service counter, toeing off his shoes. He looked surprised to see me, but not unwelcoming. 

“Que pasta?” he asked. 

I almost laughed. That’s how nervous I was. Surely, laughing at Spencer’s garbled word jokes is a sign of the apocalypse. Saying this out loud was among the most embarrassing things I have ever done, but I told him the truth: “You didn’t kiss me goodnight.”

I said it without thinking about what would come next. 

If I had, I might have envisioned a slow approach, a hand to the cheek, a gentle press of lips. I would not have guessed that he would leap across the space between us and crowd me back against the door. I could not have foreseen the hunger in his eyes, or the way his fingers dug through too many layers of cloth at my shoulders, pulling me towards his mouth. 

There was no hesitation in him, and any left in me was burned away by his desire. 

After the last kiss, the first one where I realized that he was at least partially serious about wanting me, I spent hours debating how serious that actually was. I didn’t think he was trying to embarrass or hurt me. I had moved beyond such uncharitable interpretations, but I did wonder if he was aiming for meaningless fun or something more. I was so afraid of the answer, I didn’t think I would ever have the courage to find out. If it wasn’t for the devastation and abject failure I’d already felt that day, I might have been right. We were both hurting, vulnerable. It graced me with the ability to believe the best of his intentions.

Spencer was real and alive under my hands. We made out like teenagers; rough and raw, and full of more emotion than technique, but absolutely perfect. When he pulled back reluctantly to catch his breath, he was smiling the first real smile I’d seen on him in days. I never knew how much I loved it until then, and knowing that it was for me, that I caused it, sent a pang to my heart. I wanted to make him smile like that every day. 

That was something of a revelation. 

He kissed me again, quick and soft and somehow grateful. He was shy in an un-Spencer-ish kind of way when he said, “Um, I was gonna put on a movie. Do you want to watch a movie with me?” 

I nodded, not trusting my voice. 

He pulled me through the darkened room, and by the time he had popped _Earth Girls Are Easy_ into his VCR ( _a goddamn VCR?_ ) and sat a respectable distance from me on the couch, he had reverted to about 90% of his base normal self. I always knew he could sublimate with the best of us, but I had never seen him do it in real time before. 

Maybe we could sit and just be normal together. We could watch a dumb movie and feel not-so-alone and part of my brain was already figuring out how many minutes I should wait before trying to hold his hand. 

“Jeff Goldblum is so hot in this,” he said, and gave his eyebrows such an exaggerated wag, I knew it was all for show and he was still hurting. 

None minutes. That’s how long I waited. 

+1. 

Good feelings make me uncomfortable. I don’t trust them. So you’ll understand why I avoided Spencer like the plague for the next couple of weeks. If I could forget what his heartbeat felt like in my finger tips, I might just be okay. 

It’s not like he made a huge effort to seek me out, either. We crossed paths a couple of times, but always in mixed company, and with nothing extraordinary between us except a handful of lingering glances. I was trying to keep him away until everything was back to normal. I was secure in the delusion that that was still possible. 

O’Hara and I were out looking for a suspect who I believed had already left town. We were going down the list of known addresses and associates one by one, but it was a waste of time. No one was talking. 

When we stopped for lunch she said, “It’s too bad Shawn’s not around. I bet he could help us find Peterson.” 

When he stopped by the station nosing around for a new case the day before, I maintained a perfectly standard interaction with him. I even managed to insult him and kick him out before he could get more than a glance at the file on my desk. 

“We don’t need him,” I said, shutting her down before she brought Spencer up again. The last thing I needed was for her to tell me how great he was. 

Heading to our next stop, I thought she had let it go, until she asked, “What’s going on with the two of you, anyway?”

My hands jerked and nearly ran the car into the curb. “What?” I gawped. “Nothing!” I realized I’d seen the look on her face before. It was the one she gave to criminals when they said, “Gee, I don’t know how those drugs got in my pocket, officer.” Maybe I was protesting too much. I kept my eyes on the road so she couldn’t check them to see if I was lying. 

“Men,” she said. I didn’t ask for clarification. 

We visited another degenerate. He hadn’t seen his loser friend either, but he sure would keep an eye out for him. 

“You’re allowed to like him, you know,” she said, breaking the silence as we headed towards the last stop of the day. I wished she hadn’t. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She sighed as though speaking to a recalcitrant child. “Shawn. Everyone else likes him. No one would think that it’s weird if you became friends. You have a lot in common.”

“O’Hara, what are you doing?”

“You think I don’t know, but I know,” she said cryptically. 

“What do you know?” I asked, frankly terrified, but doing my best to sound incredulous.

“Okay, well, I don’t exactly know anything, but something is going on and you won’t talk to me. Which is fine. But you were almost happy there for a while, and being kind of nice to him, and then ever since that whole thing with the FBI, it’s like you’ve been forcing yourself to remember that you’re miserable. You’re being a real pain. And Shawn? He’s even worse!”

“Did he put you up to this?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! Right there. You need to talk to him, Carlton. I can’t hold my tongue any longer. He keeps wanting to talk about you, and then acts like he doesn’t care. It’s driving me nuts.”

That threw me. “Why would he care about me?”

“At this point? Who knows,” she huffed. And then she started laughing. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” 

O’Hara gestured to the house at the end of the street. I couldn’t see the address on the mailbox yet, but there was a familiar blue car in the driveway. 

“No fucking way,” I said. “How did he know we would be here?”

She shrugged. “It’s Shawn,” she said, like that explained everything. I guess maybe it did.   
  
Dumb and Dumber were bickering in Guster’s embarrassment of a vehicle when we approached. They both popped out like nothing was wrong as soon as they saw us. O’Hara threw me under the bus immediately by suggesting that she and Guster could go around the back while Shawn and I entered through the front. 

The house was abandoned, so at least we didn’t need to go through the whole warrant rigmarole. Our perp’s favorite hang-out was a known drug den that had been raided too recently for the scum to make their way back yet. Some of the windows were boarded and garbage was scattered over the floor. The whole place was in bad need of a wrecking ball. Spencer trailed behind me as I cleared the rooms on the ground floor. 

“How ya been, Lass?” 

“Quiet, Spencer,” I whispered. 

“I know you’ve been quiet,” he joked, trying to pull me into conversation again. 

I didn’t dignify that with a response. We moved towards the stairs. 

“I thought you might, you know, call.”

I stopped to face him. “Why would I do that?”

“Right.” He sounded disappointed. 

We reached the landing, and I realized that I was annoyed by that. What right did he have to put this on me? “It’s not like you called me, either,” I accused. 

Spencer wasn’t listening. His eyes were all over the place, and before I could ask what the hell was going on, they went wide in shock and he said, “Fuck me, I’m stupid.” He put a finger to his lips to stop my questions and mouthed _‘He’s here.’_

I looked around. Whatever led to his belief that we weren’t alone, I didn’t see it. Amazingly, I found that I trusted him. I readied my gun. We could argue about who should have gotten over their pride and picked up the phone first later. 

“Which one?” I asked, regarding the row of doors down the hallway. 

He looked around some more and shook his head. “I can’t tell. But he’s here. I’m sorry, I should have seen it.”

It didn’t matter. I would check them all. I opened the first door to my left and found a small bathroom. It was empty. 

“Get back downstairs,” I commanded. “Tell O’Hara.”

He didn’t want to leave, but it wasn’t the most opportune location to lock horns with me over following orders. He nodded reluctantly, and said, “Fine, but you be careful.” 

Before he even had a chance to move, the slatted closet door at the end of the hall burst open. The perp rushed out, eyes blazing, comically large kitchen knife in hand, and he charged straight for us. With Spencer between my gun and my target, I had no choice but to shove him sideways into the safety of the bathroom. 

Peterson plowed into me like a linebacker, and I had just enough time to be thankful that he hadn’t run the steel of his knife straight into me as we fell to the ground. There was no way I would have been able to avoid it. He crawled over me, trying to escape. Idiot motherfuckers always try to resist arrest. I lurched up after him and got kicked in the solar plexus, but even winded I was able to grab hold of his legs to keep him from getting away. I don’t remember dropping my gun, but it’s probably good that I didn’t have it or I might have shot him out of spite. 

What happened next is something of a blur. There was a struggle as I tried to subdue him and we must have been closer to the head of the stairs than I realized because the whole house started whirling around me as we tumbled down the steps. We landed at the bottom with a crash. 

I might have passed out for a second. I heard thunder and screaming, and my addled brain took several seconds to translate it into the sound of Spencer calling out for me as he ran down the staircase behind us. My head throbbed and my whole body ached but I didn’t see a reason for the outright panic I heard in his voice. 

“I’m all right,” I tried to tell him, but it came out too weak and mumbled for even my own ears to understand. I blinked my eyes open at last and started to panic a little myself. That was a lot of blood. 

I passed out again. 

The next time I woke up, Peterson was cuffed and shouting obscenities at O’Hara. Spencer was cradling my head in his lap. He’d taken off his button down and was using it to hold pressure on my bloody scalp. I wanted to say something to brush off the intimacy of it, but even if I had the words, I’m not sure I had the energy. Christ, I had a headache. 

O’Hara had called for backup and an ambulance and they showed up around the same time. I didn’t even bother trying to send the bus away. Other than the inch long scalp laceration I was found to be okay. Just some bumps and bruises. The medic insisted that I go in for a CT, which I agreed to, and then regretted immediately once they packed me up in the truck and drove off leaving Spencer behind. I don’t know why I had expected him to come along with me. Must have been a side effect from the head injury that I even wanted him there. 

It wasn’t until much later, after the machines and staples and after-care instructions, that I realized I was stranded at the hospital. O’Hara would still be busy with booking and interrogating that asshole down at the station. I didn’t even know where my car was. I walked through the lobby of the ER, thinking maybe I could get McNab to come get me, when I saw Spencer sitting in one of the hard plastic waiting-room chairs. 

“What are you doing here?” I asked. 

“Playing Tetris,” he said, like it was obvious, and continued fiddling with his phone. “Yes! I love the long ones!”

“That’s what she said,” I blurted, without thinking. 

He stopped playing and looked up at me suspiciously. “They gave you the good drugs, huh?”

“No, just local anesthetic for the staples. They don’t think I have a concussion, but neither opioids nor blood-thinners are a great idea after a head wound.” I looked him over. He had changed his shirt at some point. The over-shirt had been a lost cause but even the t-shirt under it had gotten smeared with blood as he held me. This one was clean. “What happened after I left?”

“Couple of black and whites came by, picked up your guy, did the whole crime scene tape thing. Gus took Jules back to the station. She’s got your gun, don’t worry. I offered to bring it but she wouldn’t let me.” He pouted, then jangled my keys like a toddler. “I’ve got your car. Someone had to get it back to you.” 

“Thanks.” I didn’t know what to say after that. We stared at each other long enough for it to become awkward. I noticed how tired he looked. His eyes were dark. I reached out for the keys. “Let me take you home, then,” I said. 

“Shyeah, like I’m letting you out of my sight right now.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, but he walked away, heading for the automatic doors that lead to the parking lot. “Give me those keys, Spencer!” I called after him, but he didn’t look back. 

He drove. (I told him I didn’t like him driving my car. He told me that was too bad.) We pulled into my driveway and he killed the engine. He made no move to get out, so I stayed put. We seemed to be having a lot of these car talks lately. When he finally spoke, I was a little dumbfounded for a response.

"I know you're a cop," he said.

Under normal circumstances, I would have taunted him with a, "I didn't realize you were so observant," but that rang a bit harsh, so I settled for, “And here I thought I was so good at undercover work."

"Oh, I bet you are," he said, and dropped a lascivious wink. 

The double entendre had been unintended and I couldn't help but blush at the directness of his flirting.

"But I mean… your job is dangerous. You could get hurt any time. I know that.” He turned to look out the window instead of at me. “But today, I realized I couldn't let that happen without telling you." He trailed off. I waited for him to continue, to fill me in on whatever epiphany he’d had while I was rolling down a flight of stairs with a knife-wielding maniac, but he just sat there, letting the silence stretch. "It's settled, then. We're boyfriends now, okay?" 

It seemed like he had skipped some information somewhere, jumping from A to Z without bothering to explain any of the steps in between, but I realized two things about that. First, this was not actually new. Spencer solved cases the very same way and I had gotten used to it. Second, if it was going to turn out this well for me, who was I to argue with his methods?

He didn’t give me a chance to answer. He was out of the car too fast, and I was starting to suspect why. I’m a good detective, but I had missed a lot when it came to Shawn’s feelings.

"Okay," I agreed, to the empty car..

When I closed my front door, I locked it behind me. It would hold Shawn up for a second if he tried to bolt. I followed the noise he was making in the kitchen. From the wide entryway, I could see him filling my teapot. I don’t even like tea. I only had the stuff around for when my mother unexpectedly drops in. I don’t know that Spencer likes tea either, but he likes to keep his hands busy when he’s nervous. I didn’t even know I knew that about him.

“You need to rest,” he said, knowing I was standing there, even through my attempts to approach quietly. “Go put on something comfortable and sit on the couch.”

“Shawn?”

He dropped the kettle onto the stove, rattling the glass top, but he didn’t turn on the heat. He wouldn’t look me in the face. “Are you dumping me?” he asked quietly.

I crossed the kitchen with the intention of wrapping my arms around him, but when I got there, I lost my nerve. I didn’t feel like I had the right. Not yet. Even if he had called us boyfriends. 

His shoulders slumped. Christ, he was as hopeless as me. No wonder it took so long for us to figure this out. 

“Shawn,” I repeated. “Turn around.”

“You didn’t even let me try.” His face was resigned when he finally turned, but he looked me in the eye and whispered, “Oh.” 

“I’m not dumping you,” I reassured him. “But what is all this?” I asked, gesturing to the mess he’d somehow made of my kitchen in the thirty seconds he had it to himself. 

“I can’t talk about _this_ right now,” he said, waving a hand between us. “I can take care of you though. If you want.”

Now that he mentioned it, I wasn’t exactly feeling up to a long emotional chat myself. It had been a day. And putting on pajamas and settling down on the couch with a mug of tea and my boyfriend who wanted to take care of me suddenly sounded like the best idea I’d ever heard. We could figure out the rest later. There was just one thing I had to do first. 

I slid a hand behind his neck and dragged his mouth to mine. He clutched at my blood-stained shirt so tightly I was afraid it might tear before I remembered it was already ruined. I laughed, and he pulled back, questioning.   
  
“I want that,” I told him, and stole another kiss. “I want you.” The confession was embarrassing, but the dazzle of his smile was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully plan on this being three chapters, but since the story really ends here and chapter three is basically nothing but smut, I'm going to leave it as complete for now. Please leave a review if you'd like to see that next chapter faster. I work for praise!
> 
> Teaser paragraph:
> 
> "I admit I spent more time choosing my outfit than I did on most dates. And this was a date, I was sure. I put on a white tank top that generally served as an undershirt. The kind criminals call a “wife-beater” for some unfathomable reason. It showed off my arms and my chest hair more than I was comfortable with, but Spencer had commented on it too much in the past for him not to secretly like it. I was also wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. Lucinda had bought me a pair once and told me that men should always have at least one pair just like them. And that they should be worn without underwear. I felt ridiculous standing there, like it was obvious I had dressed up for him."


End file.
